Tuc. I wafer-face your Ningle.
Asi. If he carry the minde of a Gentleman, he’ll scorne it at’s heeles.
Tuc. Mary muffe, my man a ginger-bread, wilt eate any small coale?
Asi. No Captaine, wod you should well know it, great coale shall not fill my bellie.
Tuc. Scorne it, dost scorne to be arrested at one of his olde Suites?
Hor. No Captaine, Ile weare any thing.
Tuc. I know thou wilt, I know th’art an honest low minded Pigmey, for I ha seene thy shoulders lapt in a Plaiers old cast Cloake, like a Slie knaue as thou art: and when thou ranst mad for the death of Horatio: thou borrowedst a gowne of Roscius the Stager, (that honest Nicodemus) and sentst it home lowsie, didst not? Responde, didst not?
Blun. So, so, no more of this, within this houre—
Hor. If I can sound retreate to my wits, with whome this leader is in skirmish, Ile end within this houre.
Tuc. What wut end? wut hang thy selfe now? has he not writ Finis yet Iacke? what will he bee fifteene weekes about this Cockatrices egge too? has hee not cackeld yet? not laide yet?